Friday, November 13, 2009

To my friend Sam...*

...seated on a stoop at some bar in South Carolina. The scene is heavy with people of poor repute. A man with a bloated gullet drinks bourbon from a tiny bottle. College boys call an older lady with a back tattoo a project, a mountain to be mounted. The older lady calls them boys. In the dark corner of the bar, men with thin mustaches sit cross-legged. They bid bad wishes to another lost week. From the rafters hang Chinese lanterns, because a planner with a taste in gauche things thought it would look good with the Italian movie posters on the walls.

Far off friends are drinking vodka tonics in colder weather, complaining about the price of pre-school these days. Friends across the table raise another shot of Wild Turkey. Loosened by booze, one of them plans to take home the foam-board portrait of a beautiful woman in a Santa suit featured prominently at the front of the bar.

This city, a bastion of some lost form of politics, some ghastly, be-wigged Toryism, sits idly by Charleston harbor. An opalescent moon dances drunkenly in the water. Wheels clutter over cobblestone roads. Horns blow hoarsely at a city carriage that has lost its driver. It careens off the curb in front of the cantilevered bar that sits seemingly lower than its neighbors, sinking towards the street.

To Micronesia! someone shouts loudly, and the sound carries out and dies off in the myth-like night.

*Written in the most florid, cringe-inducing prose possible


Blogger ashby said...

Toryism is a shamefully under-referenced -ism.

11/16/2009 2:52 PM  

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